


Love

by mydogwatson



Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs, M/M, Mycroft is a good brother, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: Who knew that Mycroft was an expert in love?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Virtual Postcard Tales [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827328
Comments: 41
Kudos: 108





	Love

**Author's Note:**

> I hope those of you reading this stories will be happy to see that there is a new one. If you enjoy it, please let me know! In these dark days, we can all use a little positive reinforcement, right? This story gives some love to Mycroft.

1

The wedding party was dragging on far too long, in Mycroft’s opinion.

Well, to be honest, once they had served the cake, that should have been an end to it. But the guests were still spread out over the vast green lawn, sipping champagne, dancing in the marquee, and talking. Endless conversation. It was all so boring. Mycroft searched the crowd for Mummy or Daddy, but could not see either of them. He sighed and decided to walk down to the man-made lake that fronted the estate.

_Some people have more money than sense, Mummy said as the hired car drove them through the ornate iron gates._

_Daddy only hummed a reply, still engrossed in the Guardian._

_“Sherlock, stop kicking the seat,” Mycroft ordered irritably._

Remembering that exchange, Mycroft realised that he had not seen his six-year-old brother in quite some time. Mummy had asked him to keep an eye on the annoying little midge, of course. And he had meant to, of course. But he had gotten distracted while eavesdropping on the only not-boring conversation he’d heard all day. It was carried on between two unknown guests, [distant cousins, apparently], both of whom worked at the Home Office. 

Mycroft, who had already manoeuvred his way into the power structure of the Year Nines at Eton, had quickly realised that he enjoyed that sort of thing. Not the politics part, necessarily, but holding power suited him nicely. So getting to listen in on what was essentially a gossip fest, was quite interesting. Apparently, a lot could be learned from gossip, if one listened closely.

In fact, he was seriously considering putting aside his long-time dream of becoming an anthropologist and aiming for the corridors of Whitehall instead.

Actually, that was not so far from anthropology, he decided.

Mycroft reached the rocky shore of the lake and that was when he saw Sherlock.

His little brother was sitting on a bench, apparently tossing stones into the water. He did not look at Mycroft when he sat on the other end of the bench, just threw another rock. His tie had gone missing and the curls, which had been a bit tamed, were now riotous again.

“How many hops can you achieve?” Mycroft asked after a moment.

Sherlock ran a hand over his small collection of rocks carefully, frowning.

Mycroft knew that the stubborn idiot would sit there an hour, rather than admit that he did not know what the question meant. So he studied the jumble of stones piled in the middle of the bench. None of them were actually large enough for a really good skip, but he picked one of the largest, one with a good triangular shape. “Watch,” he said, standing. “How you hold it is important. Hold it with your thumb and middle finger. Hook your index finger along the edge and your thumb across the top.” He paused and looked at Sherlock. “Got that?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said scornfully.

“Your stance. Stand up straight, at a slight angle to the water. The lower your hand the better.” He glanced at Sherlock, who was listening avidly. 

_One day, shortly before Mycroft left for Eton, Daddy took him to dinner at Simpson’s, just the two of them. At one point, he mentioned casually how much Sherlock would miss him._

_Mycroft was skeptical, considering how his brother scorned whatever advice he was given. He said as much._

_Daddy just smiled. “Sherlock would never say so, but he admires you. So try to keep in touch with him, won’t you?”_

_Mycroft only nodded and decided on the sticky pudding with custard for his pudding._

But now, seeing how avidly Sherlock was watching him, Mycroft felt a certain sense of...responsibility.

“Try to maintain the stance. Throw the stone down and out at the same time. Faster instead of harder. Quickness is more important than strength. The faster the stone is spinning, the better.” He held his hand up. “You make it spin with a quick snap of the wrist.” He demonstrated, then returned to the proper stance and, taking a deep breath, threw the rock.

It skipped nine times.

“I haven’t done that in a while,” Mycroft said, returning to the bench.

Sherlock carefully picked a stone from the pile, but didn’t get up immediately. “May I ask you a question?”

Somehow Mycroft knew that it would not be about stone skipping. “Of course.”

“Why do people get married?”

He had certainly not expected that to be the question and an answer escaped him for a long moment. “Well,” he said finally. “I suppose it is because they are in love. Or perhaps they want companionship. Or to have children.” He thought briefly. “I suppose sometimes it might be for financial reasons.”

“What about Mummy and Daddy?”

“Oh, I think they love one another very much.”

“Will you get married?”

Mycroft frowned out at the lake. “I have no idea, Sherlock. Sometimes I think that for me...alone might be better.”

“But you might fall in love? One day?”

“I suppose anything is possible.”

After a moment, Sherlock stood and went to the water’s edge.

His first toss sank immediately. By the time Daddy came to collect them, Sherlock had managed five skips.

*

2

Mycroft was having unsettling flashbacks to his own time at Eton.

The insistence on some participation in sport had been annoying and Sports Day always a complete waste of time. He had finally settled on the Swim Team, because at least he enjoyed the activity and it rarely called for perspiring. The ‘team’ part was unpleasant, but once he had made his way to Captain, it was less so.

Still, being reminded of those days was not something he enjoyed.

But Mummy had insisted. She was giving a rare lecture at Harvard and Daddy had gone with her, so they could not attend Sherlock’s Sports Day. Hence Mycroft’s reluctant presence.

His train from London had been delayed, making him wish [not for the first time] that he had reached the point in his fledging career where all he had to do was raise a hand and a car would glide to the kerb, ready to take him wherever he wanted to go. But, for now, he had to put up with South Western Rail and arriving late.

Thus far, he had not spotted his brother. Finally, he made his way to the Gymnasium and managed to locate the space devoted to fencing. A number of students were scattered around the room, practicing in a lackadaisical fashion. Parents and others were slowly filling in the seating. After a moment, he spied Sherlock, lurking in the far corner on his own. In the several months since they had last seen one another, he had shot up at least two inches, which made his lanky form look even thinner. He was wearing the traditional white fencing garb and held a foil in one hand.

Before Mycroft could approach him, an announcement was made that the competition was about to begin, so instead he merely took a seat.

As the matches proceeded, Mycroft used the time to mentally draft a memo he needed to have finished by the next day. Until he heard Sherlock’s name announced, of course.

Mycroft was far from _au courant_ with the art of fencing, but he knew enough to recognise that his brother was really very good. Not to mention that he cut quite a dashing figure on the floor. If there had been female students at Eton, he had no doubt Sherlock would have been the object of much adoring attention.

Sherlock was victorious and favoured the audience with a careless and dismissive half-bow.

Mycroft returned to his own thoughts for the final two matches and then went in search of Sherlock, whom he found lurking behind the gymnasium, sneaking a cigarette. Mycroft plucked it from his mouth and crushed it under his shoe. “Don’t be a bigger idiot than you must,” he said sharply.

Sherlock crossed his arms and glowered at him. “You should not have let Mummy guilt you into coming here. Absolutely unnecessary.”

“Nonsense. I was delighted.”

They smirked at one another.

If Mycroft was going to ‘be Mother’ for the day, he intended to do it up properly, so he took Sherlock to lunch at the Cote Brasserie, where they had a table looking out at the water. “Going to treat myself in honour of your triumph at swordplay,” he said. “I’ll have the sirloin with Roquefort butter and frites.”

Sherlock’s face told the world that he was being forced to indulge in a rather lovely lunch, but he did manage to bring himself to politely order the handmade goats cheese, ricotta and walnut ravioli. Then he fixed Mycroft with a stare that meant he intended to be annoying. “So, what about that murdered Russian spy?” he asked.

Mycroft sipped the crisp Chardonnay while formulating a reply. Playing dumb was never an option with Sherlock. “Not really my bailiwick, of course.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Official word is that a Russian emigre died after consuming some tea laced with an unnamed substance.” It really was a very nice wine; he took another sip. “That is all I know.”

“You need to stop mucking about and get on with acquiring power,” Sherlock complained.

Mycroft decided not to tell him about his pending promotion.

Then Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What?”

At that moment, their meals arrived.

Mycroft engaged himself in cutting his steak.

Sherlock took two bites of the ravioli before setting his fork down again. “You look entirely too pleased with yourself. Almost cheerful.”

“Is there any reason why I should not be cheerful?” Mycroft replied. He was greatly enjoying the meal. A lovely lunch and, by the time he got back to the office, he should have a letter on his desk summoning him to a meeting with the Home Office to discuss his new position.

After a moment, Sherlock took another bite of the ravioli, chewing absently as he kept his gaze on Mycroft’s face. Suddenly his eyes opened wide. “Oh, my god! Have you fallen in love?”

Luckily, Mycroft was in the process of cutting some more steak; had he been eating it, he might have choked. “What nonsense are you spouting now?” he asked.

“Your face looks rather like those of the idiots at school when they insist upon babbling on about those empty-headed girls at Wycombe Abbey.” His tone was disdainful.

Mycroft dabbed at a stray drop of Roquefort butter on his upper lip, considering the useful adage about defence and offence. “So you have not met a charming Wycombe girl about whom you want to babble?”

Sherlock pretended a sudden and intense fascination with his food. “I have no interest in such things,” he said airily.

“Would it be a bad thing if I had fallen in love?” Mycroft asked, genuinely curious about the answer.

“You said alone was better,” Sherlock muttered.

Shortly, the waiter appeared and they ordered pudding—chocolate fondant for Mycroft and creme caramel for Sherlock—before resuming the conversation.

“Love is stupid.” 

It was rare that Sherlock sounded exactly like any other teenaged boy, but Mycroft managed to hide his amusement. “Someday you might meet the right girl and change your mind.”

“There is no ‘right girl’,” Sherlock said, not looking at him.

“Ah,” was all Mycroft said.

“What does that mean?” Sherlock growled.

“Absolutely nothing.”

They finished their meal in silence and then walked to the train station so that Mycroft could return to London. “Mummy said to tell you that she is looking forward to seeing you at half-term,” Mycroft said, pausing at the barrier.

Sherlock only shrugged.

“You know, don’t you, that love is not a bad thing?” Mycroft offered. “Look at Mummy and Daddy.”

“Go get power,” Sherlock ordered. “Make yourself useful to me.”

“That is, of course, my ultimate goal in life,” Mycroft said drily. “Good-bye, Sherlock.”

He went through the barrier and headed for his train. When he glanced back, Sherlock had already disappeared.

On the train, he thought some more about the subject of love. It felt like something completely apart from the life of Mycroft Holmes, despite the obvious example of his parents and what he had told Sherlock. For himself, he did not really care; solitude suited him and he had his work.

But, somehow, it saddened him to think that his little brother might go through life alone.

Realistically, however, there was nothing he could do about it, so he returned his attention to the memo due the next day.

*

3

The lift was out, of course.

For the best, really, Mycroft decided, considering the strong odours emerging from the thing. Urine. Excrement. Cheap burgers. And, nearly over-riding it all, the stench of despair. Failure. Hopelessness.

He sighed and began the trudge up the stairs. Stairs that were littered with broken syringes and greasy burger wrappers and used nappies [a horrifying thought even to a man who gave absolutely no thought to the well-being of infants] and generalised rubbish. He placed his perfectly-polished John Lobb’s on each step carefully, so it took several minutes to reach the third floor.

Two of the doors were off their hinges and the rooms clearly empty, so Mycroft went to the third one and, after briefly [ridiculously] considering knocking, he opened the door. The filthy windows allowed only a faint grey light through and the single naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling gave off very little illumination, so he could not tell if what he was seeing in the corner was actually a figure or only a shadow.

“Oh, my noble brother, have you come to rescue me yet again? Mummy’s little errand boy.” 

“Mummy does not know that I am here. I would not break her heart that way.”

“Are you now an expert on the subject of hearts? I thought that you scorned such plebeian concerns.”

The words were characteristically Sherlock’s, but the voice was a mere shade of his usual sardonic and superior one. That reality troubled Mycroft more than had the odiferous lift or the hazardous journey up the stairs. “Please stop lurking in the shadows. Come over here so that we can talk properly,” he snapped, mostly to cover his concern.

That concern was in no way lessened when Sherlock shuffled into view. 

Even in the poor light, Mycroft could see that his brother was in a dreadful state. His denim trousers and faded periodic table tee shirt were filthy and they hung far too loosely on his emaciated body. Dark, greasy curls drooped into his face, which had a grey cast beneath the paleness. 

Sherlock attempted the mocking smile with which he most often greeted Mycroft, but now it came off more ghoulish than anything else. “Lovely to see you, Mycroft. And a surprise, as this is not your natural habitat.” At least, his words were only slightly slurred and from the way his hands would not remain still, it was clear that it had been at least some little time since his last fix.

“Neither should it be yours,” Mycroft said sharply. “Cambridge informed me that you failed to appear for your oral exams and thus have not been granted your degree.”

“Cambridge should mind its own bloody business,” Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft knew[from long experience as the elder brother of this sometimes fey creature] that he had to stay calm. He looked around the room with feigned curiosity. “Your friend Mr Trevor is no longer here?”

Sherlock just shook his head.

“I assume his interest in your... relationship evaporated at about the same time your funds ran out.”

Sherlock’s trembling increased. “You must be delighted,” he said with as much viciousness as his weakened body and diminished spirit could summon.

“I find nothing at all delightful about this situation,” Mycroft said.

Neither of them said anything for a time. Sherlock’s condition was declining quickly and visibly.

“Oughtn’t we make a move before I am forced to carry you down the stairs?” Mycroft asked finally.

He could see his brother think about it, as best he could think in his current condition anyway, and then make a decision.

Once they were settled into the backseat of the car, Mycroft offered him a bottle of water and a chocolate bar. Sherlock did not ask where they were going, but he did drink and eat.

When at last he did speak, Mycroft was surprised at what he said.

“You were right,” he whispered. “Better off alone.”

Mycroft wanted to argue with that point, for Sherlock, at least, if not for himself. But then he hesitated. Given the choice of that repugnant Victor Trevor as a friend [or, looking into Sherlock’s bloodshot, anguished eyes, perhaps something more than a friend] it might be deduced that his brother lacked the essential social skills necessary to safely enter into a relationship. He himself had minions [although only a few thus far], allies, adversaries. That was all he needed. Maybe Sherlock could come to be the same.

He looked at his little brother, huddled in the corner, trembling and helpless, a lost boy who had once been golden and was now this broken creature. Mycroft dared to reach out and touch Sherlock’s shoulder. “Alone will protect you,” he said.

Sherlock did not shake off the hand.

Neither of them spoke during the rest of the journey to the rehabilitation clinic in Hampstead.

*

4

Mycroft left the noisy reception room and took refuge in an unused cloakroom before answering the call. It turned out to be a petty matter that could have been handled by an underling or, if necessary, by Anthea. He made a mental note to make sure that he was not bothered by such trivia again, at least on an important occasion.

When he slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned around, he saw Sherlock standing there. His new Gieves & Hawkes black suit looked a bit rumpled by this point in the evening. He wore it with a black silk shirt, although the aubergine tie had vanished at some point. “I assume that John does not know what those suits cost,” Mycroft said mildly.

John’s suit had been black as well, although paired with a deep azure shirt and a tie the colour of clotted cream.

“He didn’t ask,” Sherlock replied.

“The day went well.”

Sherlock just smiled. “No lecture on the folly of love and marriage?”

“Did you expect that there would be one? Am I that tactless?”

“We have a history.”

The band [an unseasoned, albeit enthusiastic, group whose main qualification for the booking was the fact that the lead guitarist was Lestrade’s son] had clearly returned from their break and the music leaked into this room.

Mycroft considered his brother for a moment. “Perhaps you are better placed than I to speak on the subject these days.”

“I am not sure that I have the vocabulary to do so, actually.” 

He could hear a slight frustration under-lying the statement. Sherlock never liked admitting that there was something he could not discuss at length. “Perhaps that is the nature of the beast,” Mycroft offered.

Sherlock leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. “Do you still resist the idea of getting a goldfish of your own?”

Mycroft pretended surprise. “Is that meant to imply that your new husband is a goldfish?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course not. I was merely employing your language.”

There was a pause.

“I am settled into my ways,” Mycroft admitted finally. “Any sort of an attachment seems...unlikely at this point.”

Sherlock raised a brow at him. “Any more unlikely than what happened today?”

Mycroft conceded that with a very slight smile.

“Speaking of which,” Sherlock said almost briskly, “I promised John another dance.” He pushed away from the wall and turned to leave the room. Then he paused. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he said quietly, without looking at him.

“For?”

“Everything.”

Mycroft could think of no reply to that, so he only watched his brother go.

After a moment, he also walked back into the main hall, pausing just inside the room to watch as Sherlock walked over to where John was talking with Lestrade and the Hooper woman. Sherlock held out a hand, John took it and they walked to the dance floor.

And as he watched Sherlock Holmes and John Watson move to the music, holding one another tightly, it almost seemed that anything was indeed possible. Over John’s shoulder, Sherlock winked at him.

Mycroft smiled.

**

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: Love by Stendhal


End file.
